So my dad let me buy some new shoes on Friday, after i made a very sarcastic comment that, of course, he didn't catch. Plain and cute... yano, just me. I wish i could take pictures of them to shove on here, but i broke my wonderful camera last year and still haven't had it fixed. That's just one of my novel qualities, I'm not organised but i love order. I love cleanliness but i hate cleaning. ah well...
There is another novel thing about me, i own a whole load of skirts but never seem to stop thinking about buying new one's or thinking "i haven't got any cloths at all..." I'm currently craving two skirts, one from JoeBrowns and one from Dorothy Perkins.
So the other day i was thinking back to my English Literature exam, 19th May, and how well i did. I'm not really sure if i did get the A i deeply hope for. The only thing that truly stays in my mind is the wonders the poem we were given gave my mind. I fell in love with poem. i could remember many of the lines i loved.. i could remember the name of the poem, but i couldn't for the life of me remember the poets name. So, i googled "Winter Swans" and, obviously i whole load of drivel came up... frustrated i signed onto MSN to ask a friend if they remembered the poets name. Owen Sheers! THEN IT CAME TO ME! In that exam i knew i recognised that name, and i did! Owen Sheers is one of my favourite Poets and has been for a while.
i renewed my Google search, and Lo! there it was "Winter Swans" by Owen Sheers. and i realised i had read it before, and not in that exam.
'They mate for life' you said as they left,
porcelain over the stilling water. I didn't reply
but as we moved on through the afternoon light,
slow-stepping in the lake's shingle and sand,
I noticed our hands, that had, somehow,
swum the distance between us
and folded, one over the other,
like a pair of wings settling after flight ..."
That's my favourite part...
I could have spent hours writing about that poem in the exam, but sadly i could only get in two pages within half an hour. A huge shame.
Whenever i have a Poem reading day (when i don't feel like a novel) each time i read one that makes my heart of mind combine and swirl into complete incoherent feelings and thoughts in blissful unison (as most would know, a huge rarity for heart and mind to agree), i wish i was a poet.
Now, many people have done, and will again, say of course i can be a poet... but, well, no. That's not me, if i were a poet ... I'd know it. I spent most of my life (or my free time) thinking of things to write... or actually writing them. I'm a descriptive writer, not someone who writes huge metaphors for whole entire things and calls it a poem.
Anyways, my Gosh this is much just like what I'd write in my diary.
I'll close this off, with something i wrote in the morning when i was staying at a friends flat after a night clubbing. Everyone was snoozing on the couches and my legs were numb. so i sat up and grabbed my note book and pen from my bag.
Love, E x
5:37AM
Silent, cold, passive light seeped timidly through the tiny cracks left by the roughly drawn curtains. I lightly padded over to the window and drew one curtain a little, to peer out into the new spring morning. It was just as I had expected; light white clouds wisped over the sky, sending shy light upon the still docks. The light was not bright enough to create shadow, and so all stood in blissful contentment, undisturbed, and peaceful. It was as if the morning was sighing sleepily, slowly waking into a crisply bright day, though not quite ready to leave its comfortable slumber.
So the other day i was thinking back to my English Literature exam, 19th May, and how well i did. I'm not really sure if i did get the A i deeply hope for. The only thing that truly stays in my mind is the wonders the poem we were given gave my mind. I fell in love with poem. i could remember many of the lines i loved.. i could remember the name of the poem, but i couldn't for the life of me remember the poets name. So, i googled "Winter Swans" and, obviously i whole load of drivel came up... frustrated i signed onto MSN to ask a friend if they remembered the poets name. Owen Sheers! THEN IT CAME TO ME! In that exam i knew i recognised that name, and i did! Owen Sheers is one of my favourite Poets and has been for a while.
i renewed my Google search, and Lo! there it was "Winter Swans" by Owen Sheers. and i realised i had read it before, and not in that exam.
'They mate for life' you said as they left,
porcelain over the stilling water. I didn't reply
but as we moved on through the afternoon light,
slow-stepping in the lake's shingle and sand,
I noticed our hands, that had, somehow,
swum the distance between us
and folded, one over the other,
like a pair of wings settling after flight ..."
That's my favourite part...
I could have spent hours writing about that poem in the exam, but sadly i could only get in two pages within half an hour. A huge shame.
Whenever i have a Poem reading day (when i don't feel like a novel) each time i read one that makes my heart of mind combine and swirl into complete incoherent feelings and thoughts in blissful unison (as most would know, a huge rarity for heart and mind to agree), i wish i was a poet.
Now, many people have done, and will again, say of course i can be a poet... but, well, no. That's not me, if i were a poet ... I'd know it. I spent most of my life (or my free time) thinking of things to write... or actually writing them. I'm a descriptive writer, not someone who writes huge metaphors for whole entire things and calls it a poem.
Anyways, my Gosh this is much just like what I'd write in my diary.
I'll close this off, with something i wrote in the morning when i was staying at a friends flat after a night clubbing. Everyone was snoozing on the couches and my legs were numb. so i sat up and grabbed my note book and pen from my bag.
Love, E x
5:37AM
Silent, cold, passive light seeped timidly through the tiny cracks left by the roughly drawn curtains. I lightly padded over to the window and drew one curtain a little, to peer out into the new spring morning. It was just as I had expected; light white clouds wisped over the sky, sending shy light upon the still docks. The light was not bright enough to create shadow, and so all stood in blissful contentment, undisturbed, and peaceful. It was as if the morning was sighing sleepily, slowly waking into a crisply bright day, though not quite ready to leave its comfortable slumber.
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